


skitstövel

by andouilles



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Comedy, M/M, One Shot, Peter Parker Doesn't Have Superpowers, Peter Works at IKEA
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-04 22:42:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17907056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andouilles/pseuds/andouilles
Summary: Telltale bloody footprints smeared across the linoleum floors told Peter it was going to be one ofthosesort of days.





	skitstövel

There were two places Peter Parker considered hell on earth: all of New Jersey and IKEA.

At first, working for the infamous furniture store seemed like a cool idea. As far as part time jobs went, it was one of the cooler ones. Sure, he had the occasional difficult customer — but that was just part of working retail. For a few months, Peter was satisfied with his job, even found himself cruising along most days. It would get boring from time to time — but it was all okay.

Everything was okay, until one fateful day. His job, no, his  _ life _ had changed forever.

Peter Parker had never been to a murder scene, but when he entered the showroom he could have sworn he walked into one. 

The first time he had arrived at work and seen blood everywhere, he scrambled and slipped across the floors, shakily dialing 911 and praying he got out alive.

Now, Peter nonchalantly sipped on his coffee and prayed a meteor would hit Earth instead.

Telltale bloody footprints smeared across the linoleum floors told Peter it was going to be one of  _ those _ sort of days.

“Hey, God? It’s me again. Peter Parker from Queens,” he ran his hand down his face, his expression scrunched up in agony. “Why do you  _ hate _ me?”

Lounging on one of the many blood smeared beds was none other than Deadpool. Peter used to call the police. After a third encounter with Deadpool, he realized that calling the police would be a waste of time. At this point, he wondered if he could call the Avengers. Having Thor on speed dial would have been  _ sweet. _

Unfortunately, Peter didn’t know any of the Avengers — didn’t personally know a single superhero in general. He was just a normal guy, in normal college, with a normal part time job, trying to get through his far from normal life.

“Deadpool,” Peter groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s been a month. You’ve been doing this once a week for a  _ month _ .”

Peter Parker was slowly losing the will to live.

“Hey there, Petes!” Deadpool shot up from the bed and stood, approaching Peter with a skip to his step. The blood-covered vigilante easily had a foot on him height wise. The guy was built like a brick shithouse, and at first that  _ terrified _ Peter. Now, he could give less of a shit how big he was.

Deadpool was a big  _ nuisance _ .

The guy was harmless, well, relatively speaking. Deadpool had never hurt a customer or employee of IKEA, but the blood he tracked in was concerning to say the least. That and the guns. And swords.

“I was trying out the Myrbacka here. Oh, and the Morgedal. And the Knapstad. That’s my favorite one so far. Knapstad. Knaaapstad. Feels really good to say that. It’s got the perfect amount of firmness and it just—”

“Who do you think cleans this up?” Peter interrupted, his voice perfectly calm. Beneath his stone-cold exterior was a time-bomb ticking down on its last minute.

“What?” Deadpool responded, taken aback by the seriousness of the other.

“Who.” Peter said again, louder. “Do you think. Cleans. This. Up?” Peter closed his eyes and inhaled slowly through his nose. Exhaled through his mouth. Repeated the process. His therapist had recommended deep breathing.

It wasn’t helping.

“Uhhhhh,” Deadpool looked around at the blood smeared furniture. “The cleaning guy?”

“The cleaning guy,” Peter repeated, scoffing incredulously. He turned away from Deadpool and laughed, his voice cracking in hysterics. After laughing alone for an eerily long amount of time, Peter stopped abruptly and turned back around.

“ _ I’m  _ the cleaning guy, asshole. I’ve cleaned up your mess so many times I’ve become  _ desensitized _ to blood! I don’t even feel like throwing up anymore when I see it. Nope, I just clean it up because _ nobody  _ else wants to. Everybody’s  _ scared _ of you. I was too, at first. But you know what? Now I don’t give a shit. I don’t even give a  _ fuck _ if I lose my job. Just shoot me. Shoot me now, I  _ know _ you have a gun.” Peter grabbed Deadpool by the scruff of his suit, “Shoot me!”

“Holy shit, Peter. I didn’t realize —”

“Damn _ straight  _ you didn’t realize!” he shouted. Peter jabbed a finger at Deadpool’s chest. “Clean this up right now, or so help me I will lose my shit even more than I already have. Oh, and another thing: pick out a goddamn bed and buy it for fuck’s sake!”

The two stared at each other in utter silence, before Deadpool finally opened his mouth and said, “Alright, where’s the mop?”

* * *

Two hours later, Peter sat on the curb outside the store. The sun was setting, and his fifteen minute break was about to end. Peter was smoking a cigarette.

“Smoking’s bad for you. Gives you cancer.” Deadpool emerged from the store and plopped down on the sidewalk next to Peter. “And trust me, cancer  _ sucks _ .”

“Yeah, uh, I actually don’t smoke. I just bummed this off a coworker,” Peter put out the cig on the pavement and sighed. “I thought I would give it a try, see if it calmed my nerves or whatever. But, uh, nope. My throat just really hurts now.”

It would be a miracle if he was able to make it through the rest of his shift.

“I paid for the damages. All of them, from like, the last month.” Deadpool rubbed the back of his neck. “And I bought a bed. Went with the Morgedal.”

“Excellent choice,” Peter groaned. “Happy you found your dream bed. It only took a month.” Peter closed his eyes, really hoping he could squeeze in a one-minute power nap.

“Listen, I know I can’t make it up to you —”

“Yeah, you  _ really  _ can’t.”

“ —but I figured I could treat you to dinner or something.”

Peter blinked, then slowly turned to look directly at the masked man. “Are you asking me out on a  _ date _ ?”

“No, not a date, just me trying to repay you. I mean, I have money. A lot of it. And,” Deadpool cleared his throat. “I didn’t realize how much I put you through. I don’t even have to go with you, I can get you like a gift card, or —”

“One date. I want to go to the fanciest place we can possibly get into, I mean, you have to wear a _suit_ type of fancy. I want the most expensive wine on the menu, and I want you to talk sixty-percent less than you normally do,” Peter said.

“Can do,” Deadpool replied.

“And if I enjoy myself, which would be utterly  _ insane _ , maybe I’ll consider giving you my phone number.” Peter paused and shook his head. It was official: he had totally lost his mind. Peter looked down at his watch and stood up. “I gotta go clock back in now.”

“Wade,” Deadpool said, “Wade Wilson. That’s my name. You can call me Wade.”

“Wade. Got it. You owe me,  _ big time _ .”

**Author's Note:**

> requested by @voidwadeweb and @HEYSPlDEY on twitter. i HONESTLY could not resist writing out this scene.
> 
> hit me up on [twitter](https://www.twitter.com/andouilles)


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